Rooftop Thoughts
by Mirnava
Summary: Thoughts, memories, and a misunderstanding.


Sherlock stood on the rooftop of the hotel that housed the latest murder Lestrade called him in for, his long coattails flapping in the strong wind. He had solved the murder the day before, catching the culprit just before she struck again. He had returned to the hotel, though. There was something about it, something about being so high up and looking down at the shorter buildings that he towered over in the suburbs, wide expanses of green fields in the distance, that exuded an overwhelming feeling of calm. It was a thrill and a calm, a stimulant and a relaxant, being that close to the edge. Two feet could be an eternity, or, with one wrong step, could be the last, fatal seconds and an inescapable plunge. This kind of a high could not be recreated, could not be faked with drugs. The wind pressed hard into his back, flinging his shaggy curls into his face as he looked out. It seemed that the wind was goading him, pressuring him, reminding him of all he put John through, all he had put the rest of his… friends… through. Friends he had not realized that he had, people who would miss him just because they would miss him, not because they needed his help to solve a case or to get them off of a murder charge or to ensure a sentence was carried out. Friends that would miss his company, his social awkwardness, his unapologetic genius – who would miss _him_.

Lost so deeply in thought, he was uncharacteristically unaware of his surroundings, so when his mobile _ding_ ed loudly in his pocket, he jumped and spun around, expecting someone to be standing behind him. No one was, of course. No one would dare venture onto the roof, especially not with the strength of the wind being what it was. Mentally chastising himself, he fished the technology from his coat and put in the unlock code, a part of his mind disappointed that he had been so rudely torn from his musings. He turned back out toward the open air and read the text:

 _Where are you?_

Smirking, he punched in his reply, unable to keep himself from a little sadism.

 _On the roof._

The reply was instantaneous: _WHAT WHY_

Then: _Don't jump. Don't. Please. I'm on my way, I'm almost there. Don't._

He could hear John burst onto the roof, though most of the sound of the door slamming against the brick wall was stolen by the wind. The doctor's frantic bellow of "Sherlock!" was not, though. Running footsteps approached him, stopping a few feet back, obviously worried that coming too close too fast would cause Sherlock to do something rash. Namely, jump.

Sherlock did not turn around, his gaze still locked on the fields on the horizon. He turned his head a little, though, so his words had a more direct path to John's ears and would not be lost as easily. "I had no intention to do so."

"Oh," was John's reply. He was silent for a second, but then burst in a torrent of emotion. "How was I supposed to know that? Last time you were on a roof, you died! Yeah, yeah, I know you didn't really die, but _you died_! To me, you died! For _two years_ , Sherlock! You died for two years! And now you're standing on the roof of another tall building, and when I ask where you are, the only answer you give is vague and not a _little_ misleading! You had to know that Bart's roof would be the first thing I thought about! What I had to compare this to! Why would you do that to me _again_? And why are you so close to the edge?"

Sherlock turned to look at John. "I'm thinking," he said, quirking an eyebrow. John could not maintain the level of stress and anger he was feeling, knowing it would get him nowhere with the taller man. He sighed deeply.

"Of course you are." John stepped a little closer to the edge, but still maintaining a more respectful distance from it than Sherlock did. He sighed again, but this time, it was a contented one. "It's beautiful."

While John's attention turned away from Sherlock and toward the view, Sherlock's turned to his companion. His eyes were fixed on the distance, but all of his other senses were aware of the doctor next to him. His breathing, gently slowing from his mad dash up the stairs, the way he rubbed his thumb across his fingertips to calm himself, the slight shifting of his weight from one foot to the other before settling evenly between them. _You're my best friend, John. I wouldn't hurt you like that again._

And somehow, the calm that he felt earlier was nothing compared to what embraced him now.


End file.
